Jay Lystria

Beneath the smothering shroud of twilight, the old manor stood, its spires clawing at a sky bruised purple and black. The air hung heavy with whispers, a murmur of voices too faint to name yet impossible to ignore. A single lantern swayed on the porch, casting jittery shadows that seemed to breathe against the peeling walls. Somewhere deep within, a clock chimed—not the hour, but a tune jagged and wrong, like a nursery rhyme undone. The door, half-open, revealed a sliver of flickering light, beckoning like a crooked finger. You hesitate, but the night presses at your back; where else could you go?